


The Hours Have Changed

by skoosiepants



Category: Bandom, Brand New, Cobra Starship, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-27
Updated: 2010-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-14 22:45:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s pretty, Gabe thinks. All Farrah Fawcett hair, high cheekbones and wide fucking eyes. An April showers Bambi with - he lets his eyes linger down the length of him - Christ on cracker, just about five miles of legs. Just like an angel, fucking over a kid who’s got all his sexy years spread out in front of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hours Have Changed

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Demons and angels AU and all the weirdness and religious themes that implies.
> 
> A/N: This entire thing is starflowers' fault. And also because I watch too much Supernatural and have an intense love for The Prophecy. Thanks very much to insunshine for the beta! Illustrations by the wonderful liquitexart.
> 
> IMPORTANT ANGEL INFO: courtesy of the internets, I don't really care if it's wrong.
> 
> Gadreel - fallen angel, some claim he was the snake that tempted Eve in Eden.  
> Rizoel - angel with power to thwart demons  
> Michael - yes, that's Mike Carden  
> Lahabiel - angel who protects against evil

It’s a line he’s used hundreds of times over the years - “Did it hurt?” he’d said, and the slender guy with the sharp shoulders had just looked at him, blank eyes in the middle of this unmistakable glow, and Gabe had just plowed onward; he’d smirked and ended with, “When you fell from heaven?” - but this is the first time he’s had the satisfaction of gaining this kind of reaction. The stunned hurt, the flash of panic. It makes Gabe laugh, plant an elbow on the bar and drink it all in.

Humans, he loves. They’re everything; they’re heat and anger and life, they never stop - drinking, eating, fucking, _dancing_ \- not until their hearts give out, and then there’s something poetic about that, too.

So humans - Gabe can live with them. It’s the fucking angels that piss him off.

Gabe arches an eyebrow. The guy’s fresh as a daisy under the heat sweat of the club, pure white, smelling of just laundered towels and summer sunshine. He asks, “Baby’s first meat suit?”

The guy says, “Stop,” thickly, like he’s not quite used to his mouth.

He’s pretty, Gabe thinks. All Farrah Fawcett hair, high cheekbones and wide fucking eyes. An April showers Bambi with - he lets his eyes linger down the length of him - Christ on cracker, just about five miles of legs. Just like an angel, fucking over a kid who’s got all his sexy years spread out in front of him.

Gabe knocks his knuckles into the bar top. “C’mon, sweetheart, I’ll buy you a drink. A toast to your new status.”

“No,” he says. Then adds, “Thank you,” and Gabe says, “Well, you’re a polite motherfucker, I’ll give you that.”

The angel turns back to the bar, stares down at a drink that looks like it’s been level for a while, a melted ring dampening the napkin under it nearly to the edges. Boring.

Gabe resists the urge to hang around. He doesn’t really want to know what a member of the Heavenly Host is doing at a dance club, Fallen or not. There are codes, of course - he’s supposed to run and tell his brethren, converge and smite - but demons are fucking terrible company, and he likes to stir up his own shit, anyway.

He sighs when he steps out in the cold night, runs a hand through his hair and turns up the collar of his jacket. He lights a cigarette, tucking it in the corner of his mouth, then shoves his hands in his pockets and starts walking - his apartment’s only three convenient blocks over. Fuck, he loves this town. He’s been there for just over five years – relatively short, for how long he’s been around. He hasn’t felt the urge to move on yet.

Snow, melted and frozen again, crunches under his feet. He never gets tired of seeing his breath condense and disappear, mingling with the smoke. His lungs burn, his elbows are cold in his thin coat - there’s nothing like frigid weather to make you feel alive.

It takes him less than a minute to realize someone is following him, matching his steps. And then not bothering to match his steps at all, stride lengthening past Gabe’s steady stroll. The dude is _not_ very stealthy. Nice.

Gabe’s mouth pulls into a grin. He takes one last draw from his cigarette before flicking it into the gutter.

Then he whirls around, and the guy - the fucking _angel_ , Gabe actually hadn’t seen that coming - takes a surprised, stumbling step backward. Gabe doesn’t give him any time to gain his equilibrium. He grasps his throat with one hand, grabbing his upper arm with his other and spinning, slamming him up against a grimy building wall, hears the crack of his skull on the brick.

The guy cries out, high and thin, and Gabe soaks in the panic, lets it cover him in a warm fuzzy glow. He can take _this_ angel. He’s been around, on earth, for fucking ever, he knows how to handle this body better than any spindly baby deer.

“What is this? Take me down, get in good with your daddy again?” He pushes harder, feels the oh-so-delicate knot of his Adam’s apple under his palm, and the guy scrabbles at his hand with slim, ineffectual fingers. Gabe cocks his head, curious. With a shake, he knocks him back into the wall again, and Gabe watches as his eyes go blurry - with pain, lack of air. _Really_ fucking curious.

“Please,” the guy gasps, soft, barely audible, and then his mouth goes slack, whole body slumping.

Gabe’s so surprised he lets up for a second, then catches him around his waist, up under an arm, as he falls nearly on top of him. Blood, warm and thick, is slippery on Gabe’s fingers brushing up under the guy’s nape - which happens, they’re wearing the costumes, pumping and functioning. It just doesn’t happen like _this_.

“Shit,” Gabe says, staring down at the soft, pale skin around his eyes. “Shit, you’re fucking _human_.”

*

Gabe should have smelled it, the humanity on him. The club had been packed, but that’s no excuse - Gabe had been fucking angry at the turf encroachment, he hadn’t been looking for his clipped wings.

So now he’s got a brand new, just born human on his hands, with just enough angel spit and shine to make him glow like an advent candle, a tasty snack to every demon dumb enough to stroll into Gabe’s part of town. Awesome.

Gabe settles down on the coffee table, legs spread, hands clasped between his knees. “Who are you?” he asks.

The guy, throat red, purpling at the edges already, awkwardly holds a pack of ice to the back of his head. He’s folded up in the corner of Gabe’s couch, sock feet poking in between the cushions. “William,” he says.

“Who _are_ you?” Gabe asks again, and the guy’s eyes get tight and narrow.

“William.” His voice is quiet, but strong with conviction, and Gabe’ll take that. For now.

Gabe bobs his head. “All right. William. Bill. Billvy. Feel like telling me what the fuck is going on?”

William stares at him, dark and steady. There’s a measure of shock in his gaze, so Gabe’s gonna take a wild stab here and say that whatever happened to him happened recently. Hours recently, everything on him looks brand new, from his clear, smooth skin to his creased blue jeans.

“How about you tell me why you were following me instead?” Gabe says.

William has smile lines when his mouth moves, even though there’s nothing resembling a smile on his face. “You knew me.”

“Shit, yeah,” Gabe says, almost amused. “Baby boy, you look like an angel, and that isn’t a fucking line.”

William cocks his head like a bird. “Okay,” he says. “I wanted to know why.”

Why. Because Gabe’s a fucking demon, that’s why. “You know what I am,” he says.

William dips his head, barely a nod, and says, “Now.” Now, not before.

Gabe believes him. Not because angels are shitty liars - angels are fucking _masters_ at lying, they’re sneaky, self-sacrificing, righteous-pants wearing assholes - but because William has no idea what he’s doing with this body, he can’t hide anything behind those glossy, innocent eyes.

Gabe sighs. He says, “I don’t take in strays.” He doesn’t, but he’s also not going to shove the kid back out on the street, not like he is now - he wouldn’t exactly call it a conscience, it’s more like Victoria would fucking chew him out for _days_.

William doesn’t say anything, and Gabe reaches out, only to have him flinch away, scoot further into the couch arm.

Gabe says, “Calm the fuck down;” it’s not like he can get very far, if he decides to run and Gabe decides to not let him go. He presses the flat of his palm along William’s forehead, cups the other under his chin, and William’s wide, wary eyes focus on Gabe’s face. “Calm down,” Gabe says again, softer, gentler - though he’s doing it more out of frustration than sympathy - and he pushes a dreamless sleep right through his palm and into William’s brain.

William drops like he’s had his strings cut, all tension fleeing; his neck flops back, and Gabe winces a little as his head bangs into the least cushioned part of the couch - he could have planned that better. William’s out, though. He’ll probably be out for hours, giving Gabe time to _think_.

He pats him down, nimble fingers slipping into impossibly tight pockets, jeans like a second skin, searching for a wallet, license, anything, but he comes up empty. No cash, no ID. No angel mojo, nothing stopping him from getting himself carelessly fucking killed, and one of the stiffs up there must have a sense of humor, dropping him practically in Gabe’s lap. A present. He wonders if it was on purpose, and if they knew Gabe wouldn’t kill him on sight.

Gabe licks his lips. Tempting, maybe. If he didn’t have a soul.

If there’s a flaw in Gabe’s demonic character, it’s that he’s never gotten a whole lot of satisfaction out of preying on the weak, and he has too much admiration for a feisty spirit to do much of anything to them, either. Humans are messy and fragile, but inherently strong-willed. Gabe hasn’t participated in a good old-fashioned slaughtering since the French Revolution. He’s long since run out of blood lust, and he much prefers a dry martini. Or a wet one, he’s not all that picky when it comes to alcohol.

So it’s got nothing to do with scruples, and everything to do with love.

*

The first thing Victoria says when she stumbles in past three, spiked heels hooked between her fingers, is, “Holy fuck, Gabe, are you kidding me?”

“It’s not what it looks like.” Gabe is slouched down in the arm chair, idly flipping through channels on the TV. William is still sprawled like a broken doll all over the couch, the bag of ice from earlier a dripping mess on the floor. Every once in a while his breath hitches - Gabe needs to brush up on his whole dreamless sleep crap, he doesn’t usually have much call or inclination to use it.

Victoria flicks his temple with a sharp-nailed finger as she steps by him. “It looks like you’re littering our apartment with coked-up rent boys.”

Gabe arches an amused eyebrow at her. “Definitely not what it looks like, but I like the way you think.”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course you do.” She stops in front of the couch, one hand on a hip, staring down at William. There’s a tear in the back of her stockings, Gabe focuses on her thighs a second, stunning under the micro mini, before blinking and taking in the expression on her face, the way it melts from pissy to concerned, softening her mouth. “What the actual fuck,” she says. Bending over, tentative fingers slide over William’s throat.

“I didn’t mean to,” Gabe says with a shrug.

“You.” She’s shocked for a half-second, despite all that she knows about him, he can see it in her eyes, but then she just tucks her hair behind her ears and shakes her head. “Of course you did.”

Gabe pushes himself to his feet. “It helps that I thought he was an angel at the time.”

“A little,” she says. Victoria is one hundred percent human - if he’d wanted to hang around demons, he’d have stayed in Hell. “Are you keeping him?”

Gabe says, “He’s got nowhere else to go,” because he’s not _keeping him_ , but Victoria already has a stubborn line to her jaw, eyes flicking back and forth, darting around the apartment, and Gabe knows she’s planning out logistics - food, job, where he’ll sleep.

Victoria is tough; she’s savvy, doesn’t take any bullshit, yet she’s soft-hearted where it counts, and it’s those incongruities that make Gabe admire the shit out of her.

She looks at William again, thoughtful. “So he’s not an angel,” she says.

“Not anymore.”

“Did he fall?” she asks, and Gabe doesn’t answer, because he didn’t _fall_ , not really, but to her it’s probably the same thing.

The Fallen are ostracized, exiled, and they either fight their way back or are torn apart by the horde, pieced together again into something nearly unrecognizable - millennia ago, that’s how Gabe was made, though he’s only got fuzzy memories to prove it.

Becoming human, well. That’s something completely different.

Gabe says, “You’ll have to ask him when he wakes up,” and goes to the kitchen to make himself a drink.

*

Gabe sleeps because he likes it, not because he has to.

He stretches out on his bed, feels the morning sun warm on his arm as it slowly creeps across the mattress. When he finally opens his eyes, he’s somehow unsurprised to see an angel perched on top of his dresser. Fucking _perched_ , knees folded up, bare feet curled over the cheap, pressed plywood edge, arms crossed over his knees, chin resting on his layered wrists. Impressions of wings, shadows on Gabe’s wall, sweep out behind him.

“Brother,” the angel says, and Gabe snorts, like he’s their goddamn _brother_ still, what the fuck.

Gabe sits up, lets the sheet pool to his waist, leaving his chest naked; he’s not modest, and angels don’t generally care. He takes in the unsmiling mouth, the level green gaze - they’ve got a couple hundred years and a couple dozen bodies between them, but Gabe would know that freaky intense stare anywhere. “Mike,” he says. “Cool of you to stop by. Now get the fuck out.”

Michael doesn’t blink, but Gabe hadn’t expected him to - that’s kind of his thing. Gabe’s always thought it was creepy, but he’s not impressed.

Gabe tosses aside his covers and gets to his feet, rolling his shoulders. Michael tilts his head, watching him step into boxers, scratch his belly, yawn. Gabe figures he’ll talk when he wants to talk, and Gabe actually has no interest in what he has to say, anyway.

He pulls a t-shirt over his head, and when he looks up again, Michael is gone.

“Shit,” Gabe says, resigned. No threats, no douchebag angel posturing - this is going to be trouble later on, he knows it.

The couch is empty when he makes his way through the living room, and he finds both Victoria and William in the kitchen, Victoria leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee, William sitting at the table, hands folded neatly one on top of the other.

He glances up when Gabe noisily falls upon the coffee maker – Victoria laughs and nudges a mug his way. William just stares – he’s got that angel, bird-of-prey thing still going on, gaze sharp and assessing.

“Morning,” Gabe says.

Victoria nods. She says, “I was thinking of taking William with me to Pete’s.”

“Knock yourself out,” Gabe says. “Has he eaten?”

Victoria _hmmms_ , like it hadn’t occurred to her that he _should_ eat. “I’m not—”

“I can speak,” William says. His voice is smooth and unassuming. Pleasant. Unremarkable.

Gabe arches an eyebrow at him. He’s mussed from sleep, hair tangled around his face, oddly matted in places where blood had dried. Weave from the couch texture is imprinted faintly on one cheek; dark crescents are thumbed into the thin skin beneath his eyes. He’s gray-pale, and it seems like he’s making a conscious effort to keep his back straight, head up, there’s a tremble in the set of his shoulders – he’s tired. Exhausted, really. Vulnerable has never been one of Gabe’s kinks, but he makes an executive decision and says, “Okay, you’re not going anywhere right now.”

William doesn’t move, but his eyes go liquid with relief.

“You’ll learn all about the wonders of waffles and hot showers, and then maybe we can discuss who wants me to kill you.” Gabe’s thought it over – the easiest way to destroy an angel is to make him powerless first, and there’s no reason for a heavenly body to get its hands dirty when punishment can be so neatly mete out by an earthbound demon. Gabe’s got a couple options here. He can kill William himself, or he can put him on a bus headed out of the city – whichever it is, he has to decide fast, because there’ll be more like Michael showing up, he’s sure of it.

“Gabriel,” Victoria says. She says it darkly, like he’s running the risk of a purple nurple, but Gabe’s caught by the delightfully horrified expression on William’s face at the use of his name.

“You dare?” William says. He pushes shaky hands flat on the table, like he’s debating whether to rise.

“Sure,” Gabe says, shrugging. “I think it’s fucking hysterical.” At least, he used to find it funny. He’s been Gabe so long now, he doesn’t even really think about it anymore.

William takes a deep breath. “Gadreel—”

“Watch yourself,” Gabe says. Michael’s been a busy boy, if William knows who he is. Gabe doesn’t like it.

“Well,” Victoria says, clunking her mug down on the counter loud enough to startle William out of trying – and failing utterly – to stare Gabe down, “I’m getting out while the getting’s good. You guys have fun. Try not to get any blood on the carpet; it’s a bitch to clean.”

She throws Gabe a frown, and Gabe salutes her with his coffee mug. Killing is apparently not on the agenda for today. He might as well give William a little lesson on how to be human.

*

“Gad—”

“Gabe,” Gabe says. He tosses William a loofah, and William fumbles it, pressing the sponge into his bare chest with one hand.

“Gabe,” William says, making a face – Gabe wants to laugh, and for entirely different reasons than he’s used to.

“Yes?” Gabe crosses his arms over his chest, leans his ass back against the sink.

Steam is curling the ends of William’s hair, sticking to the underside of his jaw. The bruising of Gabe’s fingerprints around his neck is bright and garish against the whiteness of his skin. He’s bone-thin under his shirt, Gabe can count his ribs, and he seems genuinely bewildered by the zip of his jeans.

He stares at Gabe helplessly.

“I’m assuming you’ve seen humanity at play before,” Gabe says.

William slowly nods.

“So, showering. Not that hard a concept.” Gabe points at the bathtub, the curtain that’s halfway peeled back from the spray.

“Yes, I know,” William says, and yet he still continues to stand there, and then Gabe recognizes the internal struggle on his face, the almost self-disgust, and gets _supremely bored_ with the whole situation.

Gabe says faux-brightly, “You’re human now, Bills, get used to it,” and then manhandles William into the tub, jeans and all.

William yelps and Gabe laughs, then steps back to check out his handiwork. William glares at him, sopping wet, hair plastered to his skull and jeans lagged down at his waist. Rivulets of rusty-brown snake down his shoulder, following the line of his collarbone.

“I’ll just leave you to it, then,” Gabe says, grinning. “Remember to get behind your ears, the crack of your ass – please tell me you know how to use the can.”

A scowl joins William’s glare.

Gabe’s still chuckling as he moves out into the hall and shuts the door behind him. In the living room, he plops down on the sofa, props his feet on the coffee table, and turns on the TV.

It’s not that Gabe doesn’t notice the shadow moving around his kitchen, he just doesn’t fucking care. A few minutes later, there’s a rustle, a disturbance in the air, and Michael is circling around him, pacing the room, a huge fucking knife in his hand. Gabe blinks at him in slight surprise. Interesting.

“Are we going to rumble?” Gabe asks.

Michael looks at him, not enough heat in his eyes to be a glare, before slitting the palm of his right hand open, forefinger to wrist. He lets the blood well and drip a little before moving to the far wall.

“Victoria’s going to kill you.” Gabe watches Michael trace sigils and symbols all over his walls in his own blood, floor to ceiling. Resigned, pouting slightly, he says, “We’re never getting our security deposit back.”

Michael grunts.

“I hope you’re not demon-proofing this place. It’d be kind of hard to live here.” Gabe wishes he had some popcorn – Michael slices open his hands five more times before moving on to the hallway.

The water in the bathroom cuts off just as Michael passes by Gabe again, disappearing into the kitchen. There’s a clatter of metal on metal, Michael dropping the knife into the sink. Sighing, Gabe gets to his feet and follows him in.

Gabe says, hanging in the doorway, one arm braced on the jamb, “So Bill’s not talking, and you just fortified my apartment against the army of darkness. Want to tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Michael almost smiles; Gabe can see the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. “No,” he says, and then he fucking disappears again, Gabe’s really starting to get irritated. Maybe he should move. Someplace tropical, he hasn’t been south of the border for a while. Heat tends to disagree with him, though; he’d never liked the fires of Hell, either.

William has a pair of Gabe’s sweats on and a t-shirt that makes him look even thinner than he actually is; which is pretty damn thin. Gabe’s stomach growls in commiseration – food’s optional, but his body prefers it. William’s up close and personal with the front door, hand hovering over the markings Michael had left there. The shirt’s nearly translucent around his neck and shoulders, wet from his hair.

Gabe clasps his shoulder. “Someone up there likes you,” he says. “Fuck if I can figure out why they gave you to me, not unless they wanted me to eat you.” Michael could be off the clock, a rogue. Doesn’t explain why he just _left_ William there, though. The trust implicit in that makes his skin itch.

William presses two fingers against the edge of a circle. “It’s a great honor,” he says.

“For me? Fuck, no.”

There’s a small smile on William’s mouth when he turns around. “No,” he says. “Not for you.”

*

William loves waffles. And bacon and syrup and butter and chocolate and milk, and Gabe watches him eat, amused, kicking back in the kitchen chair, his fourth cup of coffee in his hands.

Afterward, he watches William nap, no longer wound tight with confusion and fear, like he’s settling into his human body and is familiar and easy in Gabe’s hands. It’s strange. Gabe doesn’t know whether to call it naivety or faith.

Victoria comes home for lunch, knuckles the top of Gabe’s head, and Gabe realizes he hasn’t moved for hours. That he’s been focused on the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of William’s chest, the loose curl of his fingers over his heart. He stretches to his feet, cracking his back, and pokes at William’s stomach until he slits his eyelids, a cranky moue on his mouth.

Gabe says, “Up, get up. You’re having fun with Victoria this afternoon.”

“He is?” Victoria stands in the kitchen doorway, munching on a sandwich.

“Yeah.” Gabe needs a break. He needs some cheap alcohol and rough company. Gabe isn’t strictly interested in sin; he’s interested in living, and if the two happen to come hand in hand, well – he’s not complaining.

Victoria shrugs. “Okay,” she says, and, “By the way, you’re paying for all the paint to fix these walls, and all the pine sol we’re gonna need to scrub the marks off the linoleum in here.”

“Sure, yeah, and it’s totally not blood either.”

Victoria makes a face, but she’s pretty used to him, so it doesn’t slow down the consumption of her food.

William sits up, disgruntled, pushing his palms into the sofa cushions on either side of his thighs, and Gabe ignores him and grabs his coat and a Pop Tart. He slips out of the apartment before William’s awake enough to try and stop him – if he even wanted to – and Gabe ends up passing two bars and his favorite pizza parlor in favor of St. Francis of Assisi’s.

He tilts his head back, takes in the sprawling front steps of the old church, the ornate arched doorway, the carved statue of the patron saint, wrought iron fencing, with vicious-looking tips, surrounding it. It’s not very impressive by Catholic church standards, which is probably why Gabe likes it so much. He scratches under his chin, then bypasses the front doors and turns the corner down the dim alley leading to the rectory.

Father Way is huddled in a battered army jacket, smoking. He grimaces when he sees Gabe, eyes his cigarette, then shrugs. It’s not like Gabe hasn’t seen him worse off. He shakes lank, dark hair off his forehead and says, “Crisis of faith?”

“Nah.” Gabe kicks at some gravel, slumps his back against the wall next to Father Way. Tugging out a crumpled pack of Marlboros, he lights his own cigarette, and smiles with half his mouth at the brick across from them when Father Way huffs out a short laugh.

Companionable. Gabe’s always felt that way around him.

“Repent all your sins,” Father Way says absently. “It’s the end of the world.” He’s grinning wonkily at him when Gabe turns his head.

“Do you believe in angels, Father?” Gabe asks, strangely curious, even though he knows how he’ll answer.

Way nods, not thrown by Gabe’s question at all. “Of course.”

Gabe nods back. “Demons?”

“I don’t believe in them, Gabe, but I know they’re there.” He drops the butt of his cigarette and stubs the ember out with his heel. “Why?”

Gabe stares at him. Sees the coil of darkness on the underside of his heart. He sees healed scars all over his soul, and Gabe has always loved his imperfections; that he can preach salvation because he was saved. He fights battles with want and pain every single day – he suffers, and is happier for it. God’s most treasured creations. He will always, _always_ forgive them.

“No reason.” Gabe smiles. He loses the smoke, flicking it into a puddle of melting snow. He pats Father Way on the shoulder and turns to go.

“Will we see you Sunday?” Father Way calls after him.

Gabe lifts a hand in wave, strolling out into the high noon sunlight.

*

Gabe pokes at the mutilated cat with his toe, disgusted. “You’re such a sick fucking fuck, Lacey,” he says.

“And you’re a pussy. Harboring angels now, Gabe?” Lacey jumps down from the stone wall, grins at the corpse. “A present. To show I still care.”

Gabe scowls. The stray had been a fucking beast – he’d named it Jackal, and it’d kept the alley next to their apartment building rat free; he’s pretty sure it’d taken down a raccoon once. “What are you doing here?”

“What, you don’t love me anymore?” Lacey presses a hand to his chest. A reminder, probably. Last time they’d crossed paths, Gabe had very neatly ripped out his then-body’s heart. Messy, but effective; Lacey hasn’t bothered Gabe for nearly fifty years.

“Lacey,” Gabe says darkly.

“I’m here to share your spoils.” Lacey rubs his hands together, grinning manically.

Gabe flexes his fingers. “You really want to get into this now?”

“You know,” Lacey says with an exaggerated pout, “you’ve been a fucking downer for, like, the past two hundred fucking years.”

“I will rip your brain out through your nose with my pinky finger.”

Lacey punches his shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”

“Oh, that’s it,” Gabe says, and punches Lacey in the face. There’s a satisfying crunch, knuckles smashing like an iron bar into his nose, and Lacey curses wetly, spitting blood out on the ground. “Get the fuck out of here.”

Lacey giggles a little, hand cupping his mouth, blood dripping down his chin, and then he disappears.

Jackal is still a mess on his front stoop.

Gabe kneels in front it, rubs his bottom lip, thinking, because he could do something here, he almost wants to, but he doesn’t like messing with life - there are always unexpected consequences. Instead, he says to the deceptively empty air, “If you’re going to hang around, you might as well make yourself useful.”

Michael appears with a rustle of wings. He hunches down next to Gabe, one knee to the pavement. “I’m always useful,” he says, but he reaches out a hand, hovers it over Jackal’s side. The Latin rolls smoothly off his tongue, setting the cat’s soul to rest - the familiar words make something burn deep inside of Gabe, unpleasant and powerful. Michael gently presses the cat’s eyes closed, and then squeezes Gabe’s forearm.

He says, “You should remove him before William sees.”

Right. Because William’s got delicate angel-turned-human sensibilities, and they wouldn’t want him to fucking cry or something. Gabe makes a face.

Michael looks at him steadily, quiet - with fuck-you eyes that Gabe’s probably only half imagining, Michael can apparently get away with a lot of nasty shit, for an angel of the Lord - and Gabe says, “Fuck’s sake, fine,” and eyes up the broken remains of Jackal. Sighing, he scorches the sidewalk with a wave of his hand, body burned to ashes, ashes turned to dust.

“Happy?” Gabe asks, and finds himself talking to—absolutely no one. Son of a bitch, that’s annoying.

Gabe stomps up the stairs to the apartment and decides to eat all of Victoria’s multigrain bread, and then realizes with vague horror that Victoria will probably flip the fuck out on him - the walls are bad enough - and starts cooking dinner to help appease some of her inevitable anger.

He’s just pulling the garlic bread out of the oven when Victoria gets home, William wandering into the kitchen behind her. He’s wearing the same jeans he’d worn the night before, paired with one of Gabe’s t-shirts, and there’s a new shine to his eyes, like whatever he’d done at the record store where Victoria works had been endlessly fascinating.

“Who died?” Victoria asks, surveying the pots on the stove.

“Poor choice of words, my friend.” He tugs off his oven mitt and tosses it on the counter.

She blanches. “You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”

Gabe rolls his eyes. “Yes,” he says. “I left him in your bed.” Of course, he would never ever do that to anyone. Again.

Victoria snags a piece of garlic bread and says, “It’s always an adventure, Gabe, living with you. Also,” she nods her head toward the other side of the room, “there’s a dude in our window.”

William makes a sound in the back of his throat.

Gabe glances over, expecting Michael. It’s Lacey, one leg bent up on the sill, smoking. He grins at them and waves. Gabe stares him down and says, “Don’t worry. He can’t get in.”

*

When Gabe _does_ sleep, he sleeps light. He watches silently under half-lidded eyes, vision as sharp as any cat’s in the dark, as William eases his door open. It’s only been a little over a day, and already the angel sheen has dulled, leaving his soul shining with regular human innocence; just as dangerous, but easier to handle.

Gabe isn’t particularly alarmed by William sneaking into his room – even when he tugs carefully on Gabe’s blankets, and especially when he slips underneath them, settling alongside Gabe, arms brushing.

Gabe shifts, rolls over to spoon up behind William, tucking an arm over his side.

William freezes up, then slowly relaxes into Gabe and the mattress and he says, “The couch hurts my back.”

Gabe grins against the top of his shoulder blade. “All right.”

William wriggles a little in his hold. “Do you have to—”

“It’s this, or I’ll end up starfishing it, and you’ll be saying hello to the floor,” Gabe says. This is actually a huge lie. If Gabe falls asleep, he usually ends up not moving at all. He doesn’t dream.

William sighs, but he stops complaining. Gabe can feel his heartbeat trapped between his palm and his chest – steady. It doesn’t escape Gabe’s notice that William is no longer afraid of him; if he ever really was. Even with his guardian angel hanging around – and doesn’t Michael have _better_ things to do with his time? – Gabe could snuff his breath, boil his brain, crush his heart between broken ribs. It would only take a second. Not even Michael’s that fast, not when William’s placed his life directly into Gabe’s hands.

“You should be more careful,” Gabe says, voice low.

There’s a noisy yawn, and then William arranges himself even more bonelessly against him. “I have faith.”

Gabe tenses. “You shouldn’t.”

William twists, flops onto his back, turning his head so his nose nearly touches Gabe’s. His eyes are sleepy, and his fingers are loose, curling up at Gabe’s throat. There’s a smile at the corner of his mouth. Cheeky, almost, and Gabe wants to squeeze the fluttery warmth of William’s newborn soul in his fist. He wants William’s eyes shocked-wide and glassy, and he wants to eat everything good in William until all that’s left is a hard, candy-coated shell.

He also doesn’t want any of that at all.

In the quiet, William’s sleepy eyes slide all the way shut, his breathing slows and evens. His fingers loosen more, tips brushing the underside of Gabe’s chin.

Gabe doesn’t have to worry about being creepy – he _is_ creepy, it’s one of his many demonic attributes – so he lies awake for hours, watching William sleep. He catches William’s dreams, all fluffy-cloud boring, but it doesn’t make him stop.

Around dawn, sky pink lit, brightening minutely by seconds, he spots Michael on his dresser again, statue-still, like a gargoyle.

Gabe climbs out of bed, careful not to wake William, and Michael drops to the floor on cat-feet.

He follows Gabe out into the hallway, and Gabe says, “Do I have this to look forward to every morning now?”

Michael shrugs.

Victoria’s standing by the door to her room, bathrobe cinched loosely around her waist, hair ratty, hanging half over her face. She rubs a palm over her mouth, yawning, before blinking at them. “Huh,” she says. “Are those—wings?”

Michael looks at Gabe, one eyebrow arched.

“What? I don’t live with stupid, dude, she knows my game.” Gabe swings an arm over Michael’s shoulders without thinking about it, then freezes. “So this is kind of weird.”

Victoria crosses her arms over her chest and cocks her head. “Are you giving a bro-hug to an angel?”

Gabe very slowly removes his arm from around Michael. “No.”

“Whatever.” Victoria yawns again. “You’re making breakfast.”

*

When William shuffles into the kitchen, he says, “What are you still doing here?” to Michael, frowning. “I can handle this by myself.”

Michael, closed-mouthed asshole that he is, just stares at him.

“I mean it,” William says. “I can—there’s no _reason_ for you to—don’t you have other things you should be doing?”

Michael moves towards him. “I have faith,” he says, laying a hand on William’s arm. “But I worry.”

William makes a scoffing sound, but his cheeks are pink and pleased. He rubs the side of his face with his hand.

For the first time, looking at the two of them, Gabe thinks that maybe this isn’t a punishment for William. That this is a mission, and fuck it if angels – or ex-angels – on a mission aren’t the most annoyingly persistent bastards ever.

“It’s Sunday,” Michael says, a chiding reminder, and William’s face lights up.

“God damn it,” Gabe says.

Victoria looks amused. “Are we going to church?”

“Yes,” William says. He looks so damn happy about it that Gabe knows he probably won’t even put up a fight.

Michael gives Gabe a my-job-is-done, smug bitch kind of look and disappears.

Victoria blinks at the place where he’d been standing, but doesn’t say anything. She’s a rock, his Victoria. Gabe was extremely lucky to have found her; who says clubbing doesn’t yield long-lasting and meaningful relationships?

After breakfast, they disperse to get dressed - Gabe drags his feet, but Victoria makes amusing impatient noises, she’s so lucky he thinks she’s amazing - and they’re going to have to take William shopping at some point, because seeing him in his own clothes is doing something to Gabe’s brain; something not great, unless you’re into warm and cozy possessiveness. And not the kind of possessiveness that involves taxidermy.

He says, “Blech,” when William emerges from Gabe’s room in another one of his shirts, a purple hoodie hanging unzipped and too big over his shoulders.

Victoria nudges his arm. “All ready to play the blasphemer in God’s holy house?”

Gabe sighs. He wishes it was that easy.

Gabe has been to church before. Father Way is not the first theologian he’s argued religion with. He’s also not the first priest that Gabe hasn’t even bothered to try and sway into denouncing vows – they’re easy and unsatisfying targets, and Gabe finds them funny when they get everything wrong. Father Way is that rare bird who accidentally and often gets it right.

He hangs back in the chapel, watching from the front vestibule as Victoria and William take seats in a middle pew. The murals here are detailed and eerily condemning; there are depictions of angels on the walls, a man’s face with Gabriel’s eyes stares down at him. Gabe flips him off, feeling a vague discomfort that’s unfamiliar. The wings are never exact; in person, wings are just impressions and shadows, and in remembrance they’re always fantastical, huge and gilded with pure light. It usually warms him; this false radiance humans give angels.

Standing with his hands in his pockets under the painted, arched ceilings, Gabe feels a sliver of cold dread skein down his spine.

*

Pete’s music store is as good as any place for William to learn the ins and outs of humanity. Pete’s a douche, loud-mouthed and moody, but sincere, and probably entirely too trusting.

When they swing by, Patrick’s at the front counter, flipping through a box of albums. He looks up, smiles wide when he sees Victoria, and then dims it by about ninety percent when he catches sight of Gabe. Gabe weirds Patrick out. This is perfectly acceptable. Gabe enjoys it, and he drapes himself over the counter, leaning hipshot, and uses his forefinger to tip up the brim of Patrick’s hat.

Patrick presses his lips together, but doesn’t tell him to stop.

Victoria says, “Stop being creepy.”

“I can’t really help it,” Gabe says, grinning. Good old Patrick always makes him feel more like himself. He doesn’t know what Gabe is, but he has his deep suspicions.

“What’s up?” Patrick says. His hands are white-knuckled on the edge of the box.

The thing about Patrick, Gabe thinks, is that he can be so much _more_. He’s hindered by ridiculous self-doubts, and Gabe would be encouraging if he didn’t think Patrick would be just as likely to cry as punch him in the face - he’s stubborn and volatile by nature, but also not-so-secretly terrified of Gabe.

“I think you should give my friend William here a job,” Gabe says.

Patrick swallows hard - Gabe watches the slow-slide of his Adam’s apple with interest.

Gabe hooks a thumb over his shoulder. William is down at the end of an aisle, using earphones almost as big as his head. “William,” Gabe says. “That guy.”

“He knows who William is,” Victoria says.

“Yeah, I. From the other day.” Patrick nods, resettles his cap in a nervous gesture. “Sure, we’ll try him out.”

Gabe grins. “Cool,” he says, and then he leans forward and nearly whispers, “I’ll remember this, Patrick, I owe you one,” with a slightly arch look, just to freak Patrick out.

Patrick stares at him. The tops of his cheeks redden, but then he huffs and rolls his eyes and starts flipping through his vinyl again, ignoring the shake of his hands.

Patrick’s got gumption, Gabe will give him that. It’s really satisfying, to see someone having common sense for once - he _should_ be afraid of Gabe. Everyone should be.

Gabe wanders over toward William, gaze hesitating on the curve of his back - he’s hunched over slightly, bobbing his head to whatever he’s listening to. He shifts and grins at Gabe when he gets close; there’s a genuine warmth in his smile, and Gabe finds it a little hard to reconcile this William with the frightened, confused William of just days before.

He lifts one of the earphones off William’s ear. “Ready to go?”

William says, “Maybe,” still grinning at him, and Gabe bites the inside of his cheek hard, reveling in the twinge of pain, the metallic taste of blood blooming across his tongue, to keep from smiling back.

 

*

  
Four days out of seven - which is pretty much the amount of times a week Gabe _actually_ sleeps - Gabe wakes up to find William curled around him like a cat, and Michael perched on his dresser, watching; creepily, calmly focused on the pair of them. Gabe doesn’t get it. Michael’s always gone by the time William opens sleep-swollen eyes to grin lazily up at Gabe, and Gabe sometimes nuzzles into his warm throat before he can stop himself - he licks at his pulse, and William usually just hums and lets him.

William will stare at the corner of the room, like he knows Michael’s been there, but he doesn’t say anything about it. He makes disgruntled faces, though, before getting up to go into the bathroom.

Gabe feels like he’s losing control of something here. He shouldn’t feel so comfortable with William, but then, he’s been comfortable with Victoria for almost four years - he’s been _complacent_ ; maybe he really should consider getting the fuck out of this town. Starting over. Fighting Lacey for some turf again, or searching out Maja; the last he’d heard she was somewhere in the Middle East, wreaking her own awesome form of havoc. They usually either fucked or ripped each other apart - Gabe could use some of that right about now.

Gabe happily abandons William and Victoria daily for the safety of his job. He works because he gets bored, and he gets bored with working just as easily, but he’s managed to last at Greta’s bakery for just over two months.

Gabe has issues with Greta, of course - Greta actually fires him at least once a week, but she never remembers to make it stick. He’s pretty horrible with the customers, and eats more than he sells, and goofs off enough with the other employees that he’s basically gotten Brendon and Jon fired a lot, too. Memories are fun to fuck with; that’s always been a favorite of Gabe’s.

At the start of his shift, he half-heartedly clears off some tables before leaning back on the counter, rag thrown over one shoulder. He grins at Jon, trying to think of something to do that’ll get them in trouble with Tom, the shift manager. Jon looks distracted, though; uncharacteristically flustered.

And then Gabe smells angel. And not the familiar Michael righteousness-will-prevail smell, but the demon hunter kind; acrid, like the air after a lighting strike. These angels make it an art form, are kind of just as fucked up as the demons themselves, they just get by on being divinely sanctioned.

He doesn’t recognize him at first; the relaxed stance, the lack of dramatics and ‘emo, woe is me and my smiteful life’ attitude. He’s always been the worst of them, because he takes little pride and delight in his work, trying to garner fucking _sympathy_. They’d fought in Vegas nearly three decades ago; Gabe had skipped town before any actual destruction could happen, he’s not stupid. Now, though, he’s sporting a brown checkered suit and a brown derby, rim threaded with a pink daisy. He’s reading a paper and sipping at coffee, an untouched muffin by his right elbow. Gabe wonders what the hell his game is.

Gabe makes his way over, sitting down across from him at the little circular table - he’s always been more likely to confront than hide, at least at first; he’s blown more bodies that way - and leans forward on his elbows. “What’s up, Riz?”

The newspaper rustles, and then Gabe spies an eyebrow arch. “I prefer Ryan,” he says. “I’m sure you can relate.”

“Huh.” Gabe hooks his fingers in the top of the newspaper and tugs it down. Rizoel— _Ryan_ actually smiles at him. “Are you high?”

Ryan takes his time folding up his newspaper, neatly placing it underneath his coffee mug before picking absently at his muffin. “Why would you say that?” he asks.

Gabe stares at him.

Ryan remains unruffled. He bends a leg to rest an ankle on his knee, tips his head to the side, eyes unblinking – he’s like a flamingo, balanced and graceful, for all his ridiculous plumage.

Jon stumbles over, twisting a rag between his hands. “Uh, Gabe?” He darts bewildered looks between Gabe and Ryan, and it barely takes a second for Gabe to realize that Jon’s flustered because he thinks Ryan’s _hot_ , and that—that’s just hilarious.

Gabe chuckles, but says, “In a minute, Jonny Walker.”

Ryan brings a hand up to slowly rub at his jaw. He gives Jon a heavy-lidded once over that makes Jon blush – _hysterical_ – then says to Gabe, “Rest easy, friend,” and grins loosely at him as Gabe chokes on spit and nothing – _friend_? Angels don’t normally use that term lightly.

“I’m tracking Lacey,” Ryan goes on. He frowns. “He’s really starting to piss me off.”

Gabe says, “What?” He’s sitting there, right across from a sociopathic demon-killing machine, and Ryan isn’t going to even try to, fuck, bless his plastic butter knife and stab Gabe in the eye with the Holy power of God behind him? What the fuck?

Ryan flicks an amused glance toward Jon, then shrugs and says, “You have your humans to look after.” He sounds like a patronizing douchebag. Gabe wants to kick the shit out of him. The thing is, though, Gabe knows he’d probably lose.

“You’re freaking me out,” Gabe says.

Ryan licks crumbs off his thumb and says, “God’s will be done.”

*

Gabe gets the sudden irrational urge to make little Brendon Urie go on a killing spree. He’s got all this pent up Mormon rage, but normally Brendon’s really good at channeling it into his music and fucking random girls and pining after Jon Walker. Gabe argues himself out of it, because it _is_ irrational, and also because he’d have to find a new place to work, and he’s kind of attached to Jon. And then he talks himself into it again, because Brendon having a psychotic break and gunning down his closest friends with the sawed-off shotgun Frank keeps at the convenience store around the corner – for defensive purposes only – would be motherfucking _awesome_.

In the end, though, he just eats frozen pizza on his couch with William. He picks off all the pepperoni and wonders absently when he stopped liking meat. Weird.

William shifts so his feet are tucked under Gabe’s thigh, and when Gabe turns to look at him he’s got his eyes closed, and a vague smile on his face.

Gabe pinches his calf.

William twitches, slits his eyes open and says, “Hey.”

“Don’t get comfortable,” Gabe says.

“Too late,” William says; there’s a lofty lilt to his voice that’s disconcerting. “Already am.”

Victoria chucks a balled up napkin at Gabe from the armchair, laughing when it bounces off his forehead.

“I get no respect,” Gabe says. He’s only half joking.

William wriggles his toes. “How was work?”

“Fine,” Gabe says. He’s still not entirely sure how to take these conversations, these _how was your day_ things that William insists on, and that Victoria had never really bothered with before. It’s a given that Gabe’s day is going to be as fantastic as he makes it. “I got Jon fired again.” Really, that doesn’t get old, especially when he makes Tom do it. He doesn’t mention that Ryan’s still hanging around; he doesn’t know how William would react to that. He still gets weird about Michael – sort of wistful and angry at the same time. It almost makes Gabe feel guilty, and he’s not exactly sure why. It isn’t _Gabe’s_ fault that William is human; more and more, Gabe suspects that William actually _chose_ this.

William frowns and shifts again, rubbing his back on the couch arm like a bear, and Gabe sighs and shackles his arms, tugging him upright. Gabe leans in, moving his hands to his back and drags his nails over William’s shoulder blades. William rests his arms on Gabe’s thighs and sighs.

His eyes fall closed, and Gabe stares at the dark fan of his eyelashes.

“Better?” Gabe asks, surprised by the hoarseness of his voice.

William hums. He arches into Gabe’s hands, and Gabe flattens the pads of his fingers, walks them in place until William’s t-shirt is rucked up to the top of his spine, and Gabe’s hands find warm, bare skin.

“Don’t mind me,” Victoria says dryly.

Gabe doesn’t.

William says, “S’weird.”

After a long moment, Gabe says, “How much you miss them?” He’s massaging more than scratching now; he thinks he’s imagining the slight ridge of scar tissue, the bump of his bones where the joints of his wings used to be – this body is wholly new and blemish free.

William smiles without opening his eyes. “How much I don’t.”

*

When William walks beside Gabe, he hooks their arms together. He leans into him, makes sure their hips brush, but when Gabe looks over at him, William isn’t even paying attention – he’s staring in fascinated awe at a bunch of kids on sleds.

“That looks dangerous,” William says.

Gabe says, “It isn’t,” and automatically cushions the pile of hard, plowed snow along the sidewalk, making it higher so they can’t shoot off into the street.

They walk to Greta’s, and Brendon’s behind the counter, leaning on his forearms, biting his lip and sighing wistfully in Jon’s direction. It’s funny, how Jon hasn’t noticed yet; Gabe’s pretty sure this has been going on for years. One of these days, Gabe’s going to get sick of all the palpable yearning and trick Brendon into declaring his love – in the most ridiculous way possible, it’s going to be a masterpiece of humiliation – but for now Gabe’s content to soak in all the obliviousness and hidden man-pain, particularly when Jon gets all moon-eyed over Ryan.

When he catches sight of them, Brendon says, “Bill, hey,” and gives him a wide smile. He holds out a fist for Gabe to bump. “What can I get you guys?”

“Hot chocolate,” William says with little kid eagerness, because William _loves_ hot chocolate; Gabe is currently choosing to find that endearing.

“With whipped cream. And two butterscotch squares,” Gabe adds. “And a Coke.” He drops a twenty on the counter, not bothering with the change – Brendon needs the tip, anyway - and then grabs William’s hand, pulling him over to the table in the back that’s pushed up against a comfy loveseat. Half because he wants to claim it before the noontime rush, and half because he doesn’t want William to notice Father Way, tucked into a table for two by the front bow window, bent over a sketchpad.

William looks amused. He slumps back into the couch and gives Gabe a lopsided smile. “He’ll just come over here, you know,” he says.

“He won’t if he doesn’t see us,” Gabe says.

“He’ll see us.” William digs a knuckle into Gabe’s side. “Maybe you should glower at him, get him to leave us alone.”

Gabe scowls.

“Yes, exactly, like that,” William says, and Gabe knows he’s laughing at him – only William would think it’s hysterical to poke at a demon.

“I can blow this entire place up,” Gabe says, “and everyone in it.”

“Oh, but then you couldn’t get Jon fired today. I know how you love that.”

“Bill,” Gabe growls, a warning. This cheeky attitude of William’s is starting to work his last nerve.

William widens his eyes. It’s a _fake_ widening, Gabe can tell. But then William’s mouth softens and he squeezes Gabe’s knee, and says, “Okay, I’ll stop.”

Jon brings over their drinks and brownies, and William hums as he sips his cocoa, tapping fingers along Gabe’s thigh. When Father Way spots them, Gabe doesn’t even put up a fuss.

Father Way says, “Can I join you?” and William grins wide and says, “Yes,” and Gabe just sighs to himself as Way pulls up a chair, dropping his pile of books and papers out on the table, just missing Gabe’s Coke.

While William and Father Way talk about fuck knows what, Gabe tugs Way’s sketchpad toward him and surreptitiously flips through it. There are some pictures of vampires and zombies – weird, for a priest, but whatever, they’re pretty cool – a couple of Jon and Brendon, even one of Gabe, leaning against the front counter, and then there’s one of Ryan, sitting at a table. It’s a good likeness. Like, weirdly good, because it isn’t really his _human_ likeness. His bones are too long, neck too thin, and there are dark gray wings tucked up tight along his back. Huh.

“Oh, uh.” Father Way looks embarrassed. He spreads a hand over the picture of Ryan. “I don’t know why I drew that.”

“It’s good,” Gabe says. “I think he’d like it.”

The tops of Way’s cheeks redden. “Thanks,” he says.

And then William cocks his head at the drawing and says, “Is that—?”

“Unfortunately,” Gabe says.

William’s mouth is frowning and his eyes are narrowed, but then he just shrugs and smiles up at Way again. “He _would_ like it,” he says. “You have a good eye.”

Gabe thinks that’s kind of an understatement. He’s got a freaky unearthly eye; Gabe just hopes it’s not some sort of omen. The last thing they need are more angels hanging the fuck around; Gabe’s gonna get a fucking ulcer or something one of these days.

*

The air is dry and biting cold; if he’d actually needed his lungs, he’d probably have a pretty big problem. It almost hurts to inhale, and Gabe relishes in the pain, the way it feels like his insides are frozen.

It’s nice up there, too. The view is pretty fucking spectacular; it’s the middle of the night, but the lights from down below in the city, reflecting off the snow, make the sky almost purple, and Gabe can hardly even see the stars. He’s sitting with his legs stretched out, leaning back onto his palms spread behind him, head tipped up toward the moon, hanging low and huge and tinted blue.

There’s a slight shift in the otherwise still air, and Gabe sighs and says, “Shit, man. Can’t a guy just be _alone_ for once?”

There’s no answer - not like Gabe had actually been expecting one - and he turns to see Michael standing at the edge of the building, peering down into the street. He’s wearing a dark sweatshirt, hood pulled up over his head. His hands are tucked into the front pockets of his jeans.

“Well?” Gabe says.

“They look like ants,” Michael says.

Gabe snorts. “Tell me you don’t want to be them.”

“I don’t.” Michael sounds bewildered, like he’s never even thought of that before.

Everything about humans is different, physically and emotionally. Different from each other, nearly _alien_ from them – all that Gabe feels on earth is muted; it’s got to be twenty below freezing up there, and there’s barely a shiver forming along Gabe’s bones.

“And Bill?” Gabe says, because the happier William becomes, the more Gabe _knows_ this isn’t any sort of punishment for him. “He acts like he’s never been on earth before.”

“In a human body, no,” Michael says.

“Right.” Gabe nods. “Right, so he was just hanging around God’s Heavenly realm and thought, hey, why don’t I try being human for a while?”

One of Michael’s shoulders hitches up. “Something like that.”

“Fuck that,” Gabe says, and maybe he’s jealous of William, that’s entirely possible. Gabe’s been living like a human for thousands of years, and he still can’t feel the same things they feel, take the same joy, and William gets to experience all of that, every single day, and he’s _happy_ , and it was all on a whim? Fuck that shit.

Gabe clenches his hands into fists, knuckles scraping the rough tar of the roof.

Only God and the archangels have the power to go all ‘Blue Fairy’ on angels. He stares hard at Michael, wondering if he’s the one that did that to William, waved his magic wand and made him a real boy. “What would it take?” Gabe says; he doesn’t even know why, it’s not like Michael would ever do him, or any demon, any favors.

Michael’s quiet. Gabe thinks he probably won’t even answer, but then finally Michael says, “I can’t do that for you.” He turns to face Gabe, back to the sky. The shadows of his wings are visible, stretched now to their full span, like he could fall backward and catch an up-draft and just glide away, blocking the faint city lights. “You don’t want that anyway.”

Gabe narrows his eyes.

Michael quirks his lips up at the corners, and his eyes glow yellow-green. “I turn you human and you eventually die as a human,” he says slowly. “And then you’ll go down to Hell, and they probably won’t let you back out.”

Gabe hates to acknowledge it, but Michael does have a point. “So what about Bill?” he asks.

Michael shrugs. “He’ll be born again into Heaven, a favored brother.”

Yeah. Yeah, Gabe is really fucking jealous of William, but he can’t claim it’s not fair. His forever had been determined a long time ago, and he only has himself to blame.

Gabe runs a frustrated hand through his hair, then flops backward, staring straight up. Clouds have rolled in, and flurries are dizzily winding their way down to earth; Gabe’s body is so cold they stay crystallized when they touch his face, layer in his eyelashes. There is nothing like this below or above. No elements, no air, no sunrises or sunsets, no endless night sky, no - he hears raucous shouts from down on the street and smiles a little to himself - drunken three AM carousing. Everything is achingly beautiful in Heaven, he knows, but nothing is _real_.

If he can’t be human, at least he still has this.

*

*

Gabe stops by the music shop to walk William home from work for no reason whatsoever, except he doesn’t fell like letting William get shanked or whatever yet; he’s still got that spindly colt, fresh out of the barn look, like it’s a miracle all his limbs work as gracefully as they do. A puppy could probably take him down with a well-placed bite to his flank. Gabe figures Michael is hovering, because apparently he’s got absolutely shit-all to do with his time, and Ryan’s most likely got Lacey close to being put down – Gabe hasn’t seen him lately at the bakery – but Gabe’s always felt that if he really wants something actually _done_ , he has to do it himself.

The sigils in the apartment have faded to nearly nothing, just flakes of rust-brown; it’s not the kind of protection that lasts forever, and Gabe is sure that most of William’s troubles are going to stem just from hanging around Gabe, anyway. He should really find William somewhere else to stay, now that he’s got a steady job. Or Gabe should blow town. That’s the safest option, but Gabe finds it the most unappealing as well.

It’s strange. Gabe is feeling more restless than he has in a while, but it’s kind of undefined. He doesn’t think leaving will help, but he’s not sure staying will, either.

Gabe pauses outside, watching through the front window as William talks excitedly with his hands, Spencer lounging against the counter, one arm stretched over the top of the register. He’s smiling at William, fond, and Gabe feels this inexplicable flare of jealously – not for human life, but for _William_. It startles Gabe into taking a step backward. Son of a bitch. That crawled out of nowhere.

He frowns, digging his pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and absently lighting up.

Well, he thinks, maybe not _nowhere_. It’s like having a pet, and then realizing that pet actually prefers the company of that unattractive neighbor down the hall with all the bacon. Except William isn’t a pet, and Spencer isn’t unattractive. So, uh—Gabe has no idea where he’s going with that anology. He frowns harder.

He doesn’t even notice William until he’s waving a hand in front of his face, half hanging out the front door. “Earth to Gabe,” he says.

Gabe blinks, looks over at him. “Yeah.”

William cocks his head curiously. “Coming in?” he asks.

Gabe drops his cigarette and kills it with his toe. He glances behind William, sees Spencer still leaning against the counter, still smiling, now with his arms crossed. Gabe wants to—for the first time, he’s not exactly sure _what_ he wants. “Nah,” he says. “I’ll meet you back at home later.”

“Okay,” William says. He purses his lips, and his eyes look confused and a little worried, which makes Gabe laugh.

William in no way should be worried about _him_.

With a wave, Gabe shakes off William’s quizzical look and sets off down the sidewalk. He lights another cigarette, thinking about the beginning of time, and he wonders if he’d known what he knows now, if he’d known how much he’d actually _like_ mankind, and admire them in certain ways – if he’d known all that before the earth was even a twinkle in God’s eye, if he still would’ve fallen. Of course, if he hadn’t, he’d just be a fucking drone in the void.

He probably wouldn’t have any of this, right now.

He ignores the way his nape prickles as William watches him walk away.

*

Victoria says, “Are you being an asshole?”

Gabe arches an eyebrow. “I _am_ an asshole.”

“You know what I mean.” She folds up her pizza slice and takes a huge bite.

“I don’t know how I could possibly understand what you mean,” Gabe says.

Victoria glares over at him and chews at the same time.

Gabe’s holding a large pizza box in his hands, bottom warm and greasy on his palms. They’re strolling toward the apartment – it’s late, Victoria has on sharp heels and a short dress, huddled in one of Gabe’s hoodies. Her makeup’s smudged around her eyes, and her bangs are a mess – stuck to her forehead from sweat, then stiffened from the cold night air. She’s just drunk enough to be starving. And nosy.

“Why isn’t William out with us?” she asks, taking the box away from him, opening the lid, then apparently deciding to wait until they get home to eat another piece. She arches an eyebrow at him.

“Because William’s an innocent baby lamb.”

“Bullshit,” Victoria says.

Gabe shrugs, because he doesn’t want to talk about it. Instead, he says, “I’m gonna take off soon.”

Victoria punches his shoulder and says, “No, you’re not.”

“Swear to fucking God, Vic, I am _this close_ to eating your liver.”

“No,” Victoria says. “You’re not.”

Okay, he’s not. But only because he’s apparently given up meat, what the fuck. He has lost all perspective. “I’m leaving,” he says. “You’re going to have to look after William for me.” Victoria gives him an arch look. He replays his words in the back of his head and says, “Fuck.”

“You like him,” Victoria says.

The problem is Gabe kind of does. William’s funny, even when he’s pissing Gabe off. He’s learning how to curse, is currently addicted to raspberry jam, and the only thing he seems to be legitimately afraid of is heights, which is ironic, considering where he came from. Of course, the not being afraid thing is starting to give Gabe headaches – William’s only just mastered the art of looking before crossing the street.

Victoria grins at him. “You’re getting soft, Gabe.”

Gabe growls under his breath. He’s not getting fucking _soft_. There is nothing remotely soft about Gabe, he’s all claws and teeth and rage under this meat suit. He just prefers to save his worst for those who deserve it. Like other demons that are too stupid to stay off his turf. He’s really in the mood to hit something, actually. Blood is such a pretty color when first exposed to air, before it gets sticky and dry and _dull_.

Victoria hums as she walks, heels click-grinding on the rough concrete. There’s something about the rhythm that reminds Gabe of a scared-rabbit heartbeat, the uneven hitches as she speeds up, the cold finally cutting through her haze of alcohol. Gabe clenches his fingers into fists, nails digging jagged cuts into his palms. She tosses a look over her shoulder, a half-smile, the breeze catching strands of her hair out of its ponytail to slither over her cheeks.

“Coming?” she says, and Gabe realizes he’s stopped, and she’s a quarter of a block away from him – her feet tangle a little as she walks sideways, waiting for him.

Gabe swallows. “Yeah.” He tucks his bloodied hands into his front pockets and picks up his pace.

*

William’s asleep on the couch when they get in, wrapped mummy-like in an afghan with only tufts of his hair sticking out. Victoria sits down on his feet and opens up the pizza box on the coffee table.

William groans, and Victoria pushes at his shins and says, “Go to bed, Billy boy.” She flicks on the TV and turns the volume up to obnoxiously loud, and Gabe glares at her.

He knows what she’s doing.

“What?” she says around a mouthful of pizza.

William claws his way out of his blanket cocoon, red-faced and sleepy-eyed. He yawns, scrubs a hand up over his jaw and through his messy hair. “Hi,” he says, blinking at them blearily.

“Hey,” Victoria says. She shifts sideways when he pulls his legs out from under her, folding them up. “Go to bed.”

“You’re on my bed,” he says after a short, bemused pause.

Victoria rolls her eyes and kicks off her shoes.

Gabe sighs, hooks his ankles together and leans against the back of the couch, but William just rests his chin on his knees and tilts sideways, eyes at half-mast, facing the television. Gabe gives up and leans over to knuckle William’s shoulder. He says, “C’mon, Bills, let’s go.”

William snuffles into the side of his hand, struggles out of the afghan and gets to his feet. He follows Gabe to his bedroom, leans into his back just inside the door, and mumbles, “Where’d you go?” against the nape of Gabe’s neck.

“Out,” Gabe says. He doesn’t bother with a light, just nudges William toward the bed and strips off his clothes.

“Oh,” William says, not really sounding upset, but still a little confused. He climbs under the covers in his pajama pants and t-shirt.

Gabe pushes at his hip when he gets in, fighting for more space, but gives up when William just flops an arm over his stomach – it’s his own damn fault, really, he started this shit. He gets comfortable pretty easily, though; William’s bony but loose and warm.

Gabe dozes, slipping in and out of consciousness all night.

*

It’s early - not quite morning, but almost, he can always taste the dark hours before dawn - and Gabe can feel William’s eyes on him. He says, “You know, the only reason I roll with Mike’s voyeur fetish is because he can kick my ass.” He opens his eyes to find William’s face close to his on the pillow. “You, on the other hand, can’t.”

The sheets shift, and William’s fingers ghost over Gabe’s cheek before settling on the side of his neck. He smiles a little. “I know. You can eat me.”

“Yeah,” Gabe says, hoarse. He clears his throat pointedly.

William traces his Adam’s apple, down his bare chest. Long, cool fingers curl over Gabe’s hip and William’s eyelashes dip.

“I don’t think we’ve gone over this part of humanity,” Gabe says, staying perfectly still. William drapes himself all over Gabe all the time, but this feels different; this has _intent_.

William’s mouth curves up even more. “Pete’s said some things.”

“You should never listen to Pete,” Gabe says. He catches William’s hand, squeezes lightly before dragging it back up into the space between their chests. “I let you sleep here, but you don’t get to molest me.” Other way around, fine, but Gabe’s in charge here.

William pouts. Gabe wants to bite his lower lip, but he doesn’t exactly trust himself not to burn William from the inside out. He reaches over, though, tugs William’s t-shirt up and grins when William’s breath hitches. Gabe drags his fingers over his stomach, feels the muscles jumping, and slips them under the waistband of his pajama bottoms, wrapping a hand around William’s already hard cock.

William startles, all sound caught in his throat, and Gabe laughs.

“This what you want?” he asks.

William thrusts into the circle of his fist, and Gabe watches his face, his eyes wide and dark with pupil. He says, “Oh,” faint, and shudders, dick pulsing, wetness splattering over Gabe’s hand.

“Fuck,” Gabe says, because that was seriously fucking sexy. Huh.

“ _Yes_ ,” William says, like he’s hissing it, and Gabe feels want coil more firmly in his belly.

He says, “You need to work on your stamina,” and refuses to acknowledge the slight shake in his voice.

William wriggles, panting, and says, “Um, what?” and Gabe realizes William’s _still hard_ , shit.

“Okay, maybe not,” Gabe says. He pumps his hand, once, and William’s body goes long, head thrown back. Gabe might have to call the noise coming out of him a keen - it’s pretty fucking amazing. “Off, off, get this off.” Gabe scrabbles at William’s shirt with his free hand, pushing it farther up his chest, and he lets William’s cock go to smooth up around his rib cage, and William makes a disappointed sound until Gabe latches onto his collarbone with his mouth, sucking bruises, and rolls William onto his back, pressing their hips up together so Gabe’s dick slides hard and fast against William’s damp pajama pants.

“Off,” William says, and pushes at them, squirming because Gabe’s so tight up against him, until they’ve suddenly got bare skin against bare skin, William’s cock hot and wet alongside Gabe’s - William arches up into him, and Gabe thinks, _fuck, fuck, fuck_ , and maneuvers a hand down to wrap around both of them at once, jerking them off with quick flicks of his wrist.

Gabe comes first, teeth biting into William’s shoulder, and then William’s a writhing mess of, “Oh, oh,” and Gabe would find that funny if he weren’t so fucking _sucked dry_. He curls into William and says, “Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell was that?”

“Um.” William clenches and unclenches his hands rhythmically on Gabe’s upper arms.

Gabe twists to look at him, sees the high color on his cheeks and the spark of wonder in his eyes, and Gabe says, “Fuck, you’ve never even jerked off before, have you?” Which is, Gabe thinks, fucking amazing and almost _impossible_ and just, like, totally fucked up.

Also fucked up – Gabe. That should not have been as mind-blowingly awesome as it was, considering Gabe had lasted about five whole minutes, what the fuck.

There’s a crease in William’s brow. He says, “Are you—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Gabe says, and then he kisses him. William is liquid against him, for very obvious reasons, and he opens up easily to the force of Gabe’s teeth and tongue, and William’s grip goes full clench, nails biting into Gabe’s skin, and he makes a sound in his throat that Gabe recognizes as _good_ , but also _running out of air_. He pulls back, says, “Breathe, Bill,” and bites along his jaw while William gasps, sucking in great gulps of air. “Use your nose.”

Next time, he’s maybe got to slow William down.

Rolling, Gabe falls on his back, tugging William up against his side - familiar, but a whole lot more naked. The ceiling is turning gray-pink, heralding a cloudy day. It’s just about the time Michael flaps into being, watching them wake up. Either he’s not coming, or he’s already been.

“I fucking hope your brother got an eyeful,” Gabe says.

William laughs into his throat.

*

There’s something tentative in William now, like he’s no longer sure of where he stands with Gabe. Which is understandable. Gabe has no idea where he stands, either. The wary stillness is starting to piss Gabe off, though.

It’s almost like before, when William had been scared of him – only then it’d been an abstract fear of the unknown, and now it’s—Gabe’s not sure, actually. It’s almost like he’s waiting for Gabe to _disappear_. Like he’s suddenly realized Gabe won’t always be around. Which is true – Gabe’s bound to take off sooner or later. At some point, he might even ditch this body. There’s nothing permanent about Gabe, except for maybe his immortality.

It still really fucking pisses Gabe off.

When he calls William to let him know he’ll pick him up after work, William tells him not to bother, and while Gabe normally doesn’t care what anyone tells him to do, he’s got this really annoying, nagging _pain_ in his chest; fuck William. He can go brood by his fucking self all he wants.

He’s working on a ‘we had sex, stop being so fucking weird about it’ speech in his head when he turns the corner and spots William in front of their apartment building. He’s not alone.

Demons are territorial. They fucking hate being in the company of other demons; they can play at being civil, but only because that makes it slightly easier to stab each other in the back.

Most other demons leave Gabe completely alone, because Gabe tends to get—creative; it’s hard to come back from vital organ removal, severed spines, getting all the skin flayed off the bone. Demons can heal their bodies all right, but there’s some stuff you just can’t shake off. And on top of territorial, demons can be proprietary, too; they like to cling to their chosen human bodies for as long as possible. It’s just a bitch to find a really good fit.

So Gabe can go decades without coming across another demon, and that’s only half satisfying. He likes being left alone, but he does miss the myriad ways they try to destroy each other. He fucking _hates_ Lacey, though.

“Why, hello there,” Lacey says. He’s got his arms looped, deceptively loose, around William’s chest.

Gabe freezes at the end of his block, watching Lacey. It doesn’t look like William had put up much of a fight; Gabe doesn’t smell any blood yet.

“Lacey,” Gabe says.

Lacey sniffs William’s neck. “Hardly anything,” he says with a pout. “You waited too long, Gabe, he barely even smells at all angelic now. Significantly less tasty.” He cocks his head mock-thoughtfully. “Still. I could eat.”

William’s eyes are calm, staring at Gabe, but his body’s trembling.

Gabe slowly moves toward them; he should not be this fucking attached to William, really, a mortal angel who won’t even tell him his real name, but William is _his_ , and something both more and less than rage swells up inside him, edging his vision with black. At first he’s sure it’s half-directed at William, at all that he was and is and is making Gabe be, but then Lacey’s eyes fly wide, stunned, and then round with a manic glow.

“Gadreel,” he says, breathless with malicious glee. William slips out of his suddenly limp fingers, legs giving out; he folds like a marionette, slumped over his knees on the sidewalk.

Gabe growls under his breath.

Lacey laughs. He says, “You—you fucked up,” and he keeps laughing, long and hard, and he says between gasps of breath, “Holy shit. You fucked up _so bad_.”

Gabe steps into a right hook to his stomach, full force, and Lacey snaps from amused to pissed-off in seconds, rearing up to curl claws into the front of Gabe’s shirt, skin red with fury, teeth elongating into sharp and jagged points as his demon tries to tear apart his human form. He hisses, spits in Gabe’s face, “You don’t even know. You don’t even know, and now I’m going to rip you to fucking shreds.”

Gabe stumbles, momentarily stunned by Lacey’s _gall_ – he’s always been a groveling worm of a demon. He nearly buckles under Lacey’s weight, then scowls and starts feeding his own anger, letting it build up in his belly, crackling under his skin. He can taste it, acrid, in the back of his throat. And then it—fizzles.

Lacey grins at him, blood from tearing his own mouth staining his teeth. “See?”

“What—” Gabe grabs hold of Lacey’s wrists, narrows his eyes, but the fury, the pure desire to reach out and snap Lacey’s neck, doesn’t come. He sucks in a shaky breath, feels the first stirrings of panic since—he’s not sure when. It’s foreign, and he has no idea what’s happening, but then Lacey twists out of his grip and says, “I think I owe you a new body, right?”

Gabe very much likes the body he has, and he doesn’t give up easily. He punches Lacey again, this time in the side of the head, and there’s an explosion of light – Lacey _howls_ , it’s a motherfucking beautiful sound.

And then Ryan shows up, pin-neat in his brown suit, hat tucked under his arm, holding a silver-tipped wooden cane. He gives Lacey - huddling on the ground, cradling his bleeding head in his hands - a bare glance, lips curled in a sneer. He presses the palm of his hand to Lacey’s forehead and the demon screams, high-pitched and sharp with agony, before burning into smoke, black marks scorching the sidewalk in a starburst.

“Well,” Ryan says, swiping his palm on his thigh. “That was unsatisfying, for all the time I’ve spent here.” He eyes William - breathing hard, mouth covered by pale hands - and then Gabe. His gaze grows almost as gleeful as Lacey’s had before, only slightly less sadistic. He laughs, taps his hat back onto his head, and says, “But totally worth it to see this.”

Gabe feels oddly heavy.

He hasn’t felt the weight of wings on his back since before mankind. Before he turned away from God for not loving him enough to be content.

“Oh,” Gabe says. “Oh, fuck.”

*

*

Gabe stops breathing. He stops breathing and he stares at William and the crinkles of William’s eyes that say he’s most-likely smiling inside, that he’s _happy_ , that—oh, fuck, this was his _mission_. He fights off the urge to bend and flex his—his fucking _wings_ , and swallows down manic laughter of his own.

“Why?” he says faintly. “Why would you— _what_ have you done?”

“He didn’t do anything,” Ryan says, freaking _elated_ \- Gabe wants to punch him in his smug fucking face. “That was all you, friend.” He leans on his cane, crosses one ankle over the other, and Gabe ignores him in favor of watching William slowly get to his feet.

He brushes his hands on the back of his jeans. He has his head ducked, like he doesn’t know what to say.

Gabe chokes on a pained laugh. What the _fuck_. “Then why are you here?” he asks William, because there’s no fucking way; William being there isn’t _random_.

“You needed watching after,” William says simply.

Ryan snorts derisively, but his eyes are sparkling.

Gabe stares at William, incredulous, darts his gaze to Ryan – still smirking - and then back to William again, and suddenly it clicks. He breathes, “Lahabiel.” Protect me from evil.

William’s lips curl up at the corners. “Brother.”

Brother; that’s not really accurate at all. “You’re human.”

William laughs, and there’s nothing bitter in it. “Nothing gets by you. Demons aren’t generally afforded divine guardianship, you know.” He moves almost cautiously toward Gabe. “I admit you weren’t what I was expecting.”

“Why?” Gabe asks again, bewildered; mad as fuck but almost too stunned to show it.

“Our Father forgives you,” William says, shrugging. Like it’s just that fucking simple.

Something uncomfortable flutters in Gabe’s chest. “What, I’ve repented my sins now?”

“You’ve been repenting for hundreds of years. He had to rebuild your grace from the inside out.” He presses his palm against Gabe’s heart. “You fought Him for every fraction of an inch.”

Except that’s not how it _works_. The Fallen are either sucked down into the pits or they fight their way back – Gabe has never seen or heard of one leading to the other. Corruption is too heavy a burden, and those who aren’t driven insane become unflinchingly bitter, and those who aren’t unflinchingly bitter are vicious in their revenge.

William had voluntarily come to earth – he’d essentially left his grace to trick Gabe into accepting his own. It’s motherfucking _stupid_ , that’s what it is.

“Are you out of your fucking mind? I don’t want this,” Gabe says, practically yells it. He doesn’t want _any_ of this. There is nothing, he thinks, nothing that he’s ever wanted _less_ than this. He’s not meant for the heavens; he pretty much has always wanted to spend all of forever on earth.

There are whispers growing louder in the back of his mind, voices piled on top of voices, saying, _come home_ , and Gabe thinks numbly, _I already am_.

“Sometimes,” William says, with a touch of weariness in his eyes, “that doesn’t matter.”

Gabe takes a deep, shuddery breath, and tries to bring back at least a semblance of cool. He looks up at the sky, the bright, unbreaking blue – it’s a gorgeous day, cold, with a hint of spring on the air brought by the high sun - then back down at William. William has on one of Gabe’s hoodies, parted over a thin t-shirt, skinny jeans making his legs look even longer. He looks so fucking _normal_ now, but there’s still that touch of foreignness, like he doesn’t really know what to do with his hands, with his hair that keeps sweeping forward over his face in the breeze – his spine is straight, posture too stiff.

“So what’s to keep me from falling again?” Gabe asks.

William stuffs his hands in his front pockets and says, “That would be me.”

Gabe feels his wings twitch, the thin, hollow bones aching from being kept tight to his back. “Oh yeah? What if I take you down with me?”

William just shakes his head. “I want to make music,” he says, like that’s reason enough to never denounce God. Maybe it is.

Gabe laughs lightly. His throat feels tight. “A worthy prospect.”

William’s smile is crooked. “Yeah.”

“Time to go,” Ryan says. He nudges Gabe in the ribs with his cane. “Stretch those Heavenly wings.”

 _Come home, come home_ , the voices say, and Gabe knows it’s not a request. He hasn’t been out of this body in hundreds of years, and he clings to it, grips it with tight, invisible fingers, so it hurts that much more when it’s finally ripped away.

The last thing he sees of earth is William’s face, soft-smiled, sad, but not unhappy.

*

Heaven is a glorious void. Heaven is the presence of God. It’s nothing and everything, and it takes Gabe a while to adjust to the way their voices echo in his head.

 _This is bullshit_ , Gabe says.

Michael smiles at him with his whole ethereal body. _Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s kind of funny_.

 _You did this on purpose_. Gabe has never been so impotently mad. Being angry does _nothing_ here. It’s like moth wings battering at glass.

 _Relax_ , Michael says. _It’s only a means to an end, Gadreel_.

 _Don’t call me that_. Love swells all over him. Love and amusement. It’s horrifying, especially how it actually makes Gabe feel warm and fuzzy and, like, almost fucking content. Ugh. It’s like being wrapped in puppies.

Michael just watches him.

Gabe’s wings arch and retract and he says, _So you let him go. You let him go for this, for me_.

He can feel the force of Michael’s sudden frown. _I didn’t let him do anything_.

 _Whatever_ , Gabe says, crossing his arms over his chest. It’s just really self-sacrificing and stupid and exactly something an angel like William would do.

 _Lahabiel volunteered_ , Michael says. _He said only that he recognized you_.

Gabe scoffs, because they’d hardly even been _acquaintances_ before. Lahabiel had been painfully young when Gabe had fallen. Young and openly worshipful and full of _hugs_ ; he’d worn his heart high up in his eyes, Gabe remembers that.

 _Brother_ , Michael says, placing a hand on Gabe’s shoulder. _It’s a gift you’ve already accepted_.

 _I can still give it back_ , Gabe says, petulant, but he thinks of William, and all the dumb shit William’s done, done for _him_ , and he finds he doesn’t really want to. Fuck.

In the distance, he can hear Ryan laughing.

 **Epilogue:**

He’s disoriented. Dizzy, at first, before he gets his bearings. The thumping bass under his feet feels honest, though, the press of bodies all around him, the thick smell of sweat. He cuts his way to the bar, leans on it heavily with this elbows. He feels like he’s done this a thousand times before and also that this is his first time for everything. It takes him long minutes to recognize the place – the club where he first met William. And William—something tightens around Gabe’s heart.

Time makes no actual sense in Heaven. He has no idea how long he’s been gone, how much he’s missed. He looks down at his hands, the newly knit skin over achingly familiar bones. He closes his eyes and thinks inward, feels only the beating of his human heart.

“Been a while.”

Gabe’s eyes pop open. He wants to say something; he swallows all his words and stares.

William’s hair is shorter, brushing the top of his nape, curling oddly over his ears. He looks fit together better, skin stretched more comfortably over the shape of his body; he’s looser in the hips, standing next to Gabe, and Gabe is instantly jealous that he didn’t get to do that himself, that he really hasn’t had any hand in making William who he is now - fully human, content, grown into his soul.

“Buy you a drink?” William asks, and there’s more grin in his eyes than on his mouth - Gabe thinks he probably still can’t lie for shit.

Gabe laughs. “Yeah,” he says, and then gives in to the urge to touch, palms the side of William’s face, thumb at the edge of his mouth, and tilts his head up. William’s eyes are still freaking _sparkling_ , and Gabe suddenly doesn’t care how long it’s been.

William’s fingers mirror his, reach up to brush his cheek before fluttering down to the bar again. He ducks his head, like he’s nervous, and says, “Hey,” and, “I thought maybe you forgot about me,” and Gabe thinks _never ever_ , and laughs again.

When Gabe leans into William, it’s because the club’s too loud to talk normally, and he revels in the heat of William’s flushed skin. He says, “How did you find me?”

William shrugs, bend of his arm brushing Gabe’s stomach. “How did you find _me_?”

Gabe shakes his head. “A fucking beacon, man,” he says. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone all demon-eyed.”

“I can see it,” William says. His gaze darts around Gabe’s face, touching eyes, nose mouth. “You shine.”

“I’m brand-fucking-new,” Gabe says, and he’s maybe a little proud of that. Even breathing is an adventure; there’s more pleasure in the rush of air into his lungs than Gabe had ever imagined.

William’s so close his breath dries out Gabe’s lips. He asks, “You get kicked out?” and Gabe follows the shape of his mouth with his eyes.

“Yeah, well, you knew that wasn’t going to last.” He crosses that last little distance, tips his forehead against William’s, their noses brushing, and says, rough and low, “I kind of made them.” He was a motherfucking nuisance, he knows it, but he thinks maybe Michael always had this in mind for him. Not so much because of Gabe, but because of William.

“Good,” William says. He moves into Gabe, curls an arm around his waist.

“Somebody up there must like you,” Gabe says, “because they don’t give a shit about me.”

“Lies,” William says, pressing a grin against Gabe’s jaw. “Lies and untruths, you’re Michael’s favorite.”

Gabe doesn’t feel like arguing. “Can we get out of here?” He feels like—he needs to just go _home_.

“I don’t usually take in strays,” William says, but he’s still grinning, and he tightens his hold on Gabe.

Gabe lets him pull him closer, feels the drag of William’s fingernails through his thin shirt. He says, “So make an exception.”


End file.
